Ambuscade.

On that October eve,
I was like a gazelle,
springing into the air to
avoid your predatory glare.

It had only been a week since
we visited my parent's farm,
finally meeting again after
decades of disappointment.

We lounged in the barn and
fed the animals and sat at the pond,
watching the minuscule ripples
from orange leaves and heartache.

At night, the moon lifted our spirits,
as we slow-danced in the newly
painted gazebo, a slightly withered
daisy tucked behind my ear.

I should have taken that as a sign,
that we too, would wither.

All of your warmth,
the fireflies lit up by your eyes,
all of it dissipated
when you traded nobility for greed.

I saw the change in your shoulders,
the softened edges now hard, aggressive.

The moonlight was no longer a
silver beam, dancing with grace,
but a monument of glass shards.

I didn't know you,
(maybe I never did).

Though you and I barely made
a sound, I thought the world
would be just as startled as I was.

Yet, no one noticed.

Now, I refuse to ever be like you,
letting the avaricious pressure build,
steam erupting from a geyser, elements
of surprise and no redemption.

I will catch you by surprise too, someday.

I will catch you, first.

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written from the prompts in the main forum: gazebo, geyser, gazelle